


quandary

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oblivious Connor, Porn With Plot, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: They don't talk about it, because how does one broach the subject, really, and Murphy pretends it's fine, so Connor pretends he doesn't know anything about anything.





	quandary

**Author's Note:**

> Please take this with a grain of salt. Also, there are feelings at the end, because I cannot do without.

Rocco, if he's being honest, isn't the first one to mention it or to bring up the topic in general and he shouldn't put the blame on him, but - it sticks, this time. For that, Connor doesn't plan to forgive him for a while.  
  
“I'm just saying,” Rocco says, “I think it would be a hit with the ladies.” He winks. Again.  
  
Connor blinks at him until his vision clears, or he tries to, at least. “But,” he says, coming up empty for some reason.  
  
“I know, I know. Isn't exactly God's wish.” Rocco gestures broadly, maybe trying to wave it off. “But the thought must've crossed your mind at least once.”  
  
Connor blinks again, taking a too big gulp of his beer, and then he coughs. “Yer weirdly obsessed about this. Something ye should be telling me?”  
  
Rocco roars with laughter, and Connor's head throbs.  
  
“Ha. Anyway, I can't see it happening. Like, I just can't imagine it.” Rocco stops, laughing again. “You know what I mean. I could see you go through with it, you're a strong young man! But Murphy? Can't see it.”  
  
“Is it that kind of thought that keeps ye awake at night, when ye lie in yer bed all alone-”  
  
“HAHHAH.”  
  
Connor leaves the bar, stumbling and grinning.  
  
Back at their apartment, he informs Murphy, “Rocco thinks we should share a girl.”  
  
It goes downhill from there.

*

Connor lounges about, eyes fixed on Murphy eating cereal. It's nothing noteworthy, but Connor detects with sharp eyes; Murphy does sort of angle himself away, and maybe the way he's holding the spoon isn't too natural, either.  
  
“What do ye want,” Murphy asks, not even turning around.  
  
“Nothing,” Connor says. “Ye ever thought about it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Murphy clinks his spoon against the bowl far more often than necessary and Connor begins to think he's doing it on purpose. That's just the kind of brother he is - torturing him when his head is the size of a small building, feeling pathetic with hangover. 

“Why not?” Connor asks, craning his head sideways to keep looking at Murphy trudging over to the sink.  
  
“What sort of question is that even?” Murphy says, “My mind doesn't work that way. If ye want to trade dirty fantasies, ye can share them with Rocco, I'm sure.” He lights a smoke and sits back at the table.  
  
“Dirty fantasies,” Connor says and then he laughs and almost chokes his coffee back up with his nausea. “Ow.”  
  
Murphy grins smugly, blowing out smoke in his direction. “Yer pathetic.”  
  
“I know,” Connor whines and covers his forehead with his hand dramatically. “'m dying.”  
  
There's the sound of Murphy rummaging around, and then something small lands on Connor's chest. When he feels for it, it crackles promisingly. “Oh,” he breathes, “Yer an angel.”  
  
“That's what she said.”  
  
Connor stares.  
  
Murphy waggles his eyebrows and turns on the TV. Shoving two pills down, Connor frowns at the back of his head. That, right there, was a lie.  


*

“Oh, not again.”  
  
Connor hasn't even made a sound yet, and still Murphy cuts him off. He glowers. “Why do ye think ye know what I was going to say?”  
  
“Cause I know yer face, Connor.” Murphy points at him with his bottle. “And I can hear yer gears grinding, rusty as they are.”  
  
Connor flips him off with one hand, upending his beer with the other. “Anyway,” he says afterwards, “I was wondering-”  
  
Huffing, Murphy flops down on his back, beer so precariously balanced on his thigh that Connor's eye twitches. “I've got to have some words with Roc, he's turned yer brain to mush with his stupid idea.”  
  
“Is it, though?” Connor says and then he frowns, because that's not what he intended to say at all.  
  
Murphy cranes his neck to stare at him. “ _Aye_.”  
  
Connor shrugs, somewhat flustered. “Suppose yer right.” He stares at his beer, focusing on the little drops forming on the glass. “It's just-”  
  
“Oh, Jesus.” Murphy crosses himself vaguely, sitting up straight again.  
  
“Well, he _wasn't_ the first one to broach the subject, ye know?”  
  
“I don't.”  
  
“Then I'm telling ye now. Some people, a lot of people, actually, if ye want to know, have brought up the topic.” Connor frowns again. It's probably for the best to put the alcohol to the side now.  
  
“Not with me,” Murphy stresses and he actually looks distressed as well.  
  
Connor grabs the lighter and fiddles with it, hands too empty without the bottle. “Why's that, ye think?” He remembers how Rocco had put it; simply not being able to imagine Murphy doing it. There's no answer, and Connor starts to think. “Can't imagine ye either,” he says as if Murphy has any clue what he's talking about. “Now that I'm thinking about it- I can't really imagine ye in _any_ situation like that.” He lowers his eyebrows, suspicious.  
  
“Why?” Murphy asks, face weird, somehow calm and pissed off at the same time. “I'm turning in. Don't lose any sleep over it, will ye.”  
  
Connor sighs. “I won't,” he says, and he doesn't. He forgets about it as soon as his head hits the pillow.

*

He remembers again when he's in the restroom at McGinty's and someone is going at it in one of the stalls.  
  
“Murphy,” he says, flinging himself onto the stool and kicking Murphy's shin for good measure. Just in case he can't hear him, being busy trying to drown himself in beer. “Murphy,” he says again.  
  
His brother titters like the tool he is, face red and nose twitching.  
  
“What's so funny?” Connor asks, “And how come yer never in one of those stalls?”  
  
“Dunno,” Murphy says and laughs.  
  
Connor blinks at him and then he frowns, reaching over to snatch Murphy's beer. “Ye've no idea what I'm talking about, do ye?”  
  
There's silence for a beat before Murphy turns his sharp eyes on him. “Oh, I do,” he says. The grin withers to a half-grin. “Yer asking why I don't make a habit of fucking in restroom stalls, no?”  
  
Connor coughs. “Essentially, aye.”  
  
“Dunno,” Murphy says again. “How come _ye_ never fuck anyone in a restroom stall?”  
  
Pretty blunt, his twat of a brother. Not that he doesn't deserve it, with the way he keeps on prying. “Been there, done that,” he says haughtily. “I don't need a repetition. Not my style, I suppose.”  
  
Murphy blows smoke at him.  
  
“Ye, on the other hand, didn't.”  
  
“What's this about, Con?”  
  
“I'm-” Connor grins and shakes his head. “I've no fucking idea.”  
  
It's a bit weird for the rest of the evening and Connor can't bring his mind to shut up about it, it keeps nagging at- something he can't put his finger on yet.  
  
In bed, he remembers again. “Ye know what Roc said?”  
  
“Nah, but yer going to tell me anyway.” Murphy rustles with his sheets, and Connor likes to imagine he just turned in his direction, focusing on his words.  
  
“That they'd _love_ it.” He stares ahead, distracted for a moment. “Just makes me wonder if there's something about it.”  
  
Murphy sighs, not very subtle in the quiet room. “Might be. I'm not gonna do it, though. I'm not interested.”  
  
That doesn't come unexpected, but Connor grunts nonetheless. “When's the last time ye got some anyhow?”  
  
Silence, glaringly.  
  
“Murph- everything is up and working, right?” He grins, unsure all of a sudden.  
  
“Shut up,” Murphy says. He sounds tired, and then he rustles around again, surely turning away.  
  
That wasn't a yes, Connor thinks.

*

“Ye can go if ye want to. I'll stay here for a while longer, until Doc kicks me out, aye?” Connor grins merrily, ignoring Murphy's weary expression. “Hang a sock or something, so I'll _know_. Ye know.”  
  
Murphy leaves and goes to sit somewhere else. Connor stares after him, and then he stares at the lass staring after Murphy as well. Connor watches her frown and shrug, and boom - the chance is gone.  
  
“Oi,” Connor calls over to him, “Yer so stupid, look at that!” He points his head towards where she's accepting a drink from Rocco, of all people.  
  
Murphy wanders back over, face sort of set. “'m not. Yer the one who's stupid,” he points out. “Ye see things that don't exist. It's like ye live in a fantasy world or something.”  
  
Connor blinks, only a bit embarrassed. “Why's that, though? She's pretty.” He watches Murphy shrug.  
  
“Then go and try yer luck?”  
  
Something flickers in the back of his mind. He shoves it away and decides to worry instead, heart in his throat. “Murphy. Murph. Brother-” He stops and empties his drink. “Let's go home.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“C'mon.” Connor slaps some bills on the counter and ushers Murphy out and all the way home in a weird, strained atmosphere.  
  
Murphy lowers his eyebrows the second the door closes behind them and Connor marches over to him, wringing his hands.  
  
“Tell me what's wrong. Yer sick? Something like that? We can go to a doctor, ye just have to-”  
  
“Why.”  
  
Connor gnaws at his lip. “I noticed - ever since Rocco brought it up, if I'm honest, and then I got to think- When's the last time I saw my dear brother have some fun?” He ignores Murphy incredulous stare and goes on. “ _Or_ the last time he got all hectic because he was in the middle of- private time?”  
  
“Ye think about that often?” Murphy asks, eyes mean.  
  
Connor swallows and squares his shoulders. “Now I do, aye. We both know it's been a great long while, so spare me the flimsy excuses and tell me what's wrong.”  
  
Sighing, Murphy angles himself away and talks to the wall instead. “Dunno,” he says. That is all, apparently.  
  
Connor steps closer, hovering. “Is it bad?”  
  
“Nah. It's just an inconvenience.” Murphy glances over, then he looks at the floor, face scarlet. “Can't finish.”  
  
“Finish?” Connor repeats, confused until Murphy snorts, shoulders coming up to his ears.  
  
“Can't come anymore. I can't do it. It's fucking- I dunno what's wrong. I just can't do it.”  
  
Connor clears his throat. “Oh,” he says helpfully. “Let's have a look, then.”  
  
“Oh, for fuck's sake, Connor, it's not _green_ or anything.” Murphy glowers, flush and all. “I'll have ye know that it's perfectly fine and, er, healthy.”  
  
Connor nods. “What yer saying is that _it's_ so fine and healthy ye'll die of blue balls one of these days, or...?”  
  
“G'night.”  
  
That's sort of it, for a while.  
  
They don't talk about it, because how does one broach the subject, really, and Murphy pretends it's fine, so Connor pretends he doesn't know anything about anything. 

*

He tries to keep an eye out though, quite literally.  
  
Murphy doesn't let him, but he doesn't say anything about it, either.

*

“For the love of-” Murphy starts to pace.  
  
Connor holds up his hands. “I didn't even say anything.” Which is the truth, even if he _thought_ about saying something.  
  
“Grand.” Murphy stops, hands hovering in front of his groin. “How would ye go about it, then? What's yer great plan?”  
  
“Er.” Connor stubs out his smoke and thinks. “First, I would take a look at it, of course. If everything proves fine, then—wait. Can ye. I mean, it still goes... up, no?”  
  
“ _Aye_.” Murphy looks to the side, fidgeting.  
  
Connor inhales sharply, but then he gets a grip again. “But?” he prods, trying to be gentle.  
  
“Not with my hands,” Murphy says. “If I try, then- just. No hands during that phase.”  
  
There's a beat of silence.  
  
“Jesus. Okay.” Connor scratches at the side of his neck, eyes unintentionally drawn to Murphy's groin. “Yer hands are perfectly fine, though.”  
  
Murphy snorts.  
  
Connor grunts. “They are.” He blinks. “I don't want this to be weird, Murph, but I still think ye should let me take a look. It's not like I haven't seen ye starkers before.”  
  
“All right,” Murphy says with a weary sigh, making Connor blink again. This is- rather sudden, now.  
  
He stands and ushers Murphy towards his bed. “We get ye working again in no time, ye'll see.”  
  
That sounds shady, but Murphy doesn't comment and Connor tries to not stand around awkwardly when Murphy sits down and opens his jeans. He pulls out just enough for Connor to see.  
  
It's a cock. It's Murphy's cock, the way it always looked.  
  
“Looks good?” Connor says, unsure.  
  
“Told ye.” Murphy's mouth is turned downwards, looking pitiful.  
  
Contemplating, Connor lets his eyes wander between Murphy's eyes and his groin. “No hands,” he says slowly, “means it's in yer head.”  
  
Murphy purses his lips.  
  
“Get it up and working, and then think about something else.” Connor nods wisely.  
  
“I've tried that.”  
  
“Well, try again.”  
  
There's a pause.  
  
“What, now?” Gawking at him, Murphy sits with his jeans open and arms hanging limply. It looks rather pathetic.  
  
“Aye, now. Might as well get it over with, no? Just lie back and think about whatever ye think about, and we go from there.”  
  
Murphy's face is an interesting shade of red, but he does what he's been told; he scoots back on the bed and wiggles around until he's apparently comfortable enough, and then he stares at the ceiling.  
  
Concentrating, Connor keeps track of the progress.  
  
“Can't do it if ye stare at my cock during, Connor.” Murphy's voice sounds curious, but Connor figures that's to be expected, given their... curious situation.  
  
“Where else am I supposed to look-” He stops himself. “Fine.”  
  
It's quiet and awkward for a while. Connor keeps his eyes on Murphy's face, who in turn ignores him completely - which is just fine, he should be focusing on the task at hand anyway - and soon, Connor can make out a different kind of flush on his brother's face. He's scarlet and he licks his lips.  
  
“Ready,” Murphy says sheepishly, looking at him with dark eyes.  
  
It's not the first time he's seen Murphy like this, but still- it's weird. Connor clears his throat. “Go on then. Hands are allowed now, no?” Curiosity gets the better of him and he glances down, getting a firsthand view of Murphy's cock, standing attention. Or lying, really. Against his shirt, curving. “Remember it's in yer head,” Connor adds belatedly.   
  
The second Murphy closes his hand around himself, the atmosphere gets _really_ weird. Connor stands motionless, eyes glued to Murphy's face. He can still hear it though, the sound of skin dragging against skin. The slight hitch in Murphy's breath. The rustling of the sheets—  
  
Murphy scoots to the side, eyes turned up towards him. “Yer making me nervous,” he says, mouth pulled down while his hand keeps working.  
  
“Keep going and ignore me,” Connor says and then he sits down on the bed, angling himself with his thigh bent on the mattress so he can still look at Murphy's face. In this position, it's a bit harder to not let the movement catch his attention, but soon Murphy is making quiet breathy noises and his face breaks down in a frown, and Connor forgets all of his reservations.  
  
He looks down, and up at Murphy's face again. “Hold up,” he says and stands, walking to the bedside table to snatch the lube. He flings it over to the bed, nodding in encouragement.  
  
“Oh,” Murphy says. He slicks himself up in record time and just when Connor sits down again, Murphy throws his head back against the pillow and literally, actually moans.  
  
Connor coughs. “There ye go,” he says needlessly and somehow, it's even indecent to look at Murphy's face now. Only for a while, as it turns out, because then his frown comes back. Ignoring the wet sliding sounds, Connor slants his eyes down. From the look of it, Murphy is - doing fine. He's just about to ask when Murphy beats him to it.  
  
“Here it comes,” Murphy rasps, frowning and glowering and everything else negative. “Exactly nothing.”  
  
“Okay,” Connor says, pursing his lips. “Ye know it's in yer head, but that doesn't mean ye shouldn't be _good_ to it. Murph.”  
  
Murphy pants and glares, hand working.  
  
“For one,” Connor says, standing up, “stop lying around like a piece of wood, will ye?” He raises his hands, waving them to catch Murphy's attention, and hooks his fingers under the waist of Murphy's jeans. “Just a bit, so ye can. Move.” He pulls. The jeans come down under Murphy's arse and Connor nods, satisfied. “Carry on.”  
  
Murphy does and he even slicks himself up again, and then he starts rolling his hips. He sweats and moans quietly and groans _not_ so quietly, and it doesn't end.  
  
“Murphy,” Connor says, almost at a loss. This is taking entirely too long, he should've- by now.  
  
“I fucking told ye.”  
  
Connor frowns down at the cock, observing. “Maybe it's yer technique.”  
  
Murphy's breath hitches like it's stuck in his throat and Connor feels pity. “I've got an idea,” he says haltingly, “which would rely on what ye can come up with in yer _head_ instead of yer hand. Could be worth a try.”  
  
“Fucking tell me.”  
  
Connor sits down heavily, reaching for the lube. “Gimme yer hands.” Murphy complies and Connor slicks them up. “I'm going to show ye and then ye'll close yer eyes and ye just feel, aye? Think about the act. Literally fucking. Not any other fantasy.” He clears his throat.  
  
“Will do,” Murphy says. Or he breathes, and his eyes are already closed.  
  
Connor clears his throat again. “Take it in hand now.” He watches on, and then he reaches out to stall the pumping, hand closing around Murphy's, squeezing. “All right - both now. Interlace yer fingers and then- Murphy.”  
  
Murphy gives him the stink eye.  
  
“Just do it. Interlace them, thumbs up, right above the tip.” Connor sighs and when Murphy is too thick to get it, he positions Murphy's fingers like he seems fit.  
  
“Oh,” Murphy says.  
  
“Exactly.” Connor squeezes around Murphy's hands to get them to lock tighter. “Now, Murph. Just.”  
  
Murphy fucks up, cut off sound stuck in his throat. The head of his cock pushes through, but his grip gets lax and Connor has to squeeze his hands back into place. It's - weird. Connor looks up at Murphy's face, watching him stare down at their combined effort, and then Murphy rolls his hips up with force and the next time he pushes through, he dislodges his fingers and Connor shoves on instinct and then, on instinct as well, he circles his thumb over the tip.  
  
Murphy comes.  
  
Sort of noisily, at that.  
  
Connor withdraws and turns away, giving him some privacy. When his brother finally quiets down again, Connor says, “Well.”  
  
Murphy knees him in the kidney, laughing breathlessly.  
  
That's that.

*

He keeps being strangely aware of his blasted thumb all day.

*

“He really does take his time, doesn't he.” Connor blinks out of the window, fingers tapping against the frame of it.  
  
Murphy grunts. “Said he would.” He sounds a bit strained and Connor looks over, bored out of his skull and ready to latch onto anything to distract himself with. “What,” he prompts.  
  
“Nothin',” Murphy says.  
  
Connor looks away again, head rolling against the headrest. It's sort of sticky, even with both of the front windows rolled down.  
  
The leather creaks and the music turns up. “Mh,” Murphy says.  
  
Connor eyes him again, this time a bit more thoroughly, especially when Murphy swallows and avert his eyes. Following the line of his body, the way Murphy presses back into the seat and his quiet yet audible swallowing and— his splayed thighs, Connor sees the source of the 'Mh'.

“Really?”  
  
“Shut up.” Murphy's eyes snap to him for a moment, then he stares straight ahead again. “Ye think he'll be long yet?”  
  
Connor stares, uncomprehending. Pretending to. “I- Murphy, we're in public. Roc could come back any second.”  
  
“Ye'd see him, wouldn't ye? And we're in a car, not in a fucking park.”  
  
The news turn on, making the atmosphere even weirder. Connor coughs. “Is it that urgent?” he asks, not elaborating on a proposal of— doing it later, when they're back at home. That would be a tad too weird.  
  
Murphy doesn't say anything, he just sort of sits there with his knees splayed and his cock straining and his throat working.  
  
Sighing, Connor fixes his eyes on the door Rocco disappeared through. “Go on, then,” he says as if Murphy needs his permission. As soon as the words are out, he can hear the zipper of Murphy's jeans and the quiet hitching noise, just like the last time. It's probably not something he should be getting familiar with, yet here they are.  
  
And just like the last time too, Murphy stops sounding pleased a few minutes in.  
  
“Lick yer hand, will ye? It's getting painful to even hear it,” Connor says.  
  
Murphy sort of whines.  
  
Connor looks over, keeping the door in his peripheral view, just in case. “What.”  
  
“My mouth is dry as fucking sand.” Murphy sounds hoarse already and his hand has stilled. He stares ahead with a pinched expression.  
  
“For fuck's sake.” Connor grabs his hand. “This is getting ridiculous,” he adds, frowning, and then he sighs and spits on it. There's a beat of silence where Murphy doesn't continue and Connor glares at him, daring him to say anything about it being gross or weird when _he's_ the one with his fucking cock out.  
  
Murphy starts pumping again, moaning without shame.  
  
Connor sputters indignantly. “Murphy, quit. There's someone- will ye keep it down?”  
  
Murphy doesn't. A woman walks down the street, ugly dog at her heels. She's looking bored and Connor is about to have a heart attack - the sun is fucking shining and the windows are rolled down and she's on the fucking sidewalk on Murphy's side and he has his cock out and is making all sorts of noises and she will see for sure and—  
  
“Jesus Christ, Murphy, _quit_ ,” Connor whispers, reaching out to swat at Murphy's arm.  
  
Murphy does, but instead of doing literally anything else, he grabs the handle of the window and starts to roll it up.  
  
Connor stares for a second, baffled, before he swings his head in both the directions of the door and the woman, and then he snaps into action. “Ye fucking- Murphy we're about to get fucking arrested, for fuck's sake!” The back of his wrist connects rather strongly with Murphy's cock and Murphy howls and stops with the window-rolling to finally stare at the woman. His hand flies up, shoving his shirt over both his cock and Connor's arm.  
  
The dog takes a shit.  
  
Murphy isn't breathing. He's shuddering as if he only now catches up on how close he came to- he's twitching, a tiny bit, against Connor's wrist. They stay in perfect silence. Connor focuses on the woman and decidedly not on how he feels more than he ever thought he would, of his brother's cock. Murphy isn't moving at all, pressed back against the seat like he is, even his head is leaning against the headrest, looking perfectly composed, but underneath - he's vibrating. 

The woman walks by, oblivious. Murphy takes a sharp breath and then he's swelling, suddenly, and Connor feels him twitching and pumping against his wrist, involuntary pressing Murphy's cock against his belly. He grits his teeth and shoves at him as if Murphy could stop mid-orgasm, but Murphy doesn't react, he simply stares ahead. Finishing.

“Jesus Christ,” Connor says, finally retrieving his hand. There's nothing _on_ it, thank the Lord, but still. It also means Murphy's shirt is sullied now.  
  
“Er,” Murphy says.  
  
Connor juts his jaw. He lights a cigarette. “Next time ye better warn me.”  
  
“Came as unexpected for me as it was for ye,” Murphy says and then he titters, face red.  
  
Rocco comes over, looking chipper.  
  
Connor is out of the car in an instant, only turning back to hiss, “Roll the fucking window back down to _air out_ , will ye.” Then he intercepts Rocco making his merry way to the car, making random shit up to stay outside until his smoke is finished. Rocco lets him, unsuspecting like he is, and by the time they climb back into the car, Murphy is smoking, no longer exposed, and looking too relaxed for his own good.  
  
Connor grunts and then he tries to forget it all.

*

“What ye said about 'no hands during that phase'- that's quite true, right? Wonder why that is,” Connor tells the ceiling that evening.  
  
There's some rustling from the other bed and maybe something that sounds like a huff. “Dunno,” Murphy says helpfully. “Doesn't matter, since it works now anyhow.”  
  
Connor laughs but it comes out as a snort instead, slightly breathless. The atmosphere shifts.  
  
“G'night,” Murphy says. It sounds like a question.  
  
Connor grunts, not trusting himself to open his mouth for an actual reply. Who knows what would come out of it - all numbers of inappropriate questions, most likely, ranging from Murphy's definition of 'it works' to 'what made ye horny earlier' to, possibly, 'if yer able come this quickly but on yer own not at all, is it a kinky thing?'.  
  
For the sake of peace, he keeps his mouth shut.

*

He manages to keep said mouth shut for several weeks, despite curiosity gnawing at him like a dog on a bone, all the while pretending to be done with the topic.

*

Connor stumbles and catches himself on the door-handle just in time to witness the most hideous green shoes unfortunate enough to be worn stepping into his line of sight.  
  
“Would wait a bit if I were you,” says the man with the shoes. He grins and waggles his eyebrows and walks back into the bar.  
  
Connor doesn't, mostly because the waggling indicates the man didn't, in fact, take a huge shit and pollute the entire restroom, but that there's some _action_ going on. He can live with that. Each to their own and all.  
  
He goes in and the first thing he hears is a slurping sound and then, right after, a strangely heartfelt groan.  
  
Several things happen in his mind at once and he knows: Firstly, someone is getting head in one of the stalls. Secondly, it's the stall to the left, where he can see a delicate knee on the dirty tiles. Thirdly, he knows that groan, he's heard it often enough and _lastly,_ it's not a good sound. It's a bad sound, an 'Oh no'-sound.  
  
It's the sound Murphy makes when he draws his eyebrows together, face pinched and teeth digging into his lips. It's the sound he makes when he would've come minutes ago but _hasn't_.  
  
Connor stands motionless, trying to decide what to do.  
  
Murphy groans again, sounding strained, and Connor takes a silent step back, grabbing the handle to pull open the door with a swing, and marches back in, loudly.  
  
“Murph, yer in here?” he calls, “Just got word that Doc needs us to drive up to—”  
  
“What, now?” Murphy calls back.

He hears the rustle of someone putting his clothes back in order. “Aye, now. I'll be waiting outside.” Connor leaves before his brain can make sense of the hushed conversation inside the stall and not a minute later, Murphy comes out, face flushed and eyes averted. He looks thankful, and Connor's heart clenches. “Let's go.”  
  
They walk home in silence, except for Murphy trying to thank him at one time. Connor finds he doesn't want to hear it. Nothing to be thankful for, that's all.  
  
When they lock the door behind them, Connor says, “Working, aye?” He rids himself of his coat before Murphy can come up with an excuse, pinning him down with a hard stare. “Nothing changed? Did it work at least once in the meantime?”  
  
Murphy studies the floor, looking like a fucking schoolgirl, coy all of a sudden. “Fuck off,” he says.  
  
Connor pokes his finger under Murphy's nose, glaring. “Go wash up and then get on the bed. We're going to make this work.”  
  
There's a beat of silence before Murphy stares at him while he opens his belt, a hard and almost mean stare, and he even grinds his jaw when he stalks over to the sink and turns on the water. He washes, quick and efficient, not drying off but dropping his pants instead.

And his boxers. And then he slips out if his shoes and socks and marches over to the bed, lying back. He's filling out rapidly, almost good to go.  
  
Connor tries to remember how they ended up here, in a situation like this, but he comes up empty. He also comes up empty for a reason why he's stepping closer to the bed or why he's taking the little jar from the bedside table, handing it to Murphy. They never put it away, after that first time. It's instinct now, to hand it to Murphy so he can pleasure himself. It shouldn't be, he thinks.  
  
Connor sits down next to Murphy on the mattress and waits for the distressed noises. They come soon enough, but this time, he thinks he's prepared.  
  
Which doesn't mean he knows how to go about asking Murphy whether he has indeed some sort of kink - namely being watched or, maybe, being told what to do or being at someone's mercy. Each would fit, in Connor's opinion, and now he has to find a sensible way to get to the bottom of it. To help Murphy out— Shouldn't be too hard to test the first theory, with Murphy losing his pants so readily.  
  
“Don't forget to be nice to it,” Connor says, “Spread yer knees a bit, that way ye get more leverage to roll up.” He pats himself on the shoulder, internally, for being subtle out it, and then he pats some more when Murphy bends his knees at once, his breathing loud in the room.  
  
Connor sits at his side, tracking the progress and gnawing at his bottom lip. It doesn't escape his notice how Murphy closes his knees every once in a while, quiet noise stuck in his throat, looking like he's trying to hide from view. Which goes directly against Connor's plan to— find out about the kink-thing. “Hold them open,” he says loud and clear, and feeling odd about it.  
  
Murphy closes his knees, hand faltering.  
  
“If it's easier, I'll hold them.” Connor frowns, eying Murphy's barely moving hand. There's no answer, so Connor looks up at his face again. “It's no problem, I'll do it if it helps ye.”  
  
Murphy nods. He's also frowning, most likely because he feels caught by Connor exposing his- weakness.

Connor nods back and keeps his eyes on Murphy's shirt when he places one hand on Murphy's knee, rounding the bed and kneeling on the mattress. Murphy makes room for him, which is partly nice and partly disturbing, the way he spreads his legs, but all Connor has to do to keep him like this is to reach out with both of his hands and hold Murphy's knees in place. So that's what he does. Without looking down, obviously, there is still a _line_.

Perhaps it's harder than ever to not be pulled in by the movement of Murphy's hand - right under his nose - still, Connor manages to not let himself get distracted and focuses on Murphy's face. On his flushed face. With the parted lips and the dark eyes and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Aye, that one. The one producing distressed noises again.

“I'm- Connor,” Murphy says vaguely. He looks like he wants to say something or maybe ask something - ask something of him. Or at least that's what Connor thinks, because it makes sense. Who knows what else Murphy needs, deep down. Some hidden desire that keeps him from coming - and he shouldn't be ashamed of it or of the situation in general, Connor thinks. They'll work it out. It will be fine.

Connor glances down, confirming that Murphy's hand has stilled on his cock - looking rather abused already. Or not _already_ , because back in the bar, he had his cock down the throat of some girl and maybe, over the last few days, he even tried on his own and failed— _Already_ doesn't cut it. It's a dire situation, in Connor's opinion, and he inhales deeply before he looks back at Murphy's face. “I know about- ye know,” he says.

“Ye do?” Murphy breathes, eyes wide and dark and hips rolling up from the mattress.

Connor nods. “I'd say to try and lose yerself in a good fantasy, but given where I picked ye up earlier-” He clears his throat. “Should've probably waited for ye instead, would that have made a difference? Knowing someone was there, hearing ye or maybe even watching ye?”

There is no answer and not any other sound either, like Murphy stopped breathing altogether.

Not ready to admit it yet, then. “If this is not enough to get ye going,” Connor says, flexing his hands on Murphy's knees, “I suppose ye need more exposing. Or watching? Whatever ye call it. —Do ye want me to take a look?”

The question hangs in the air for a moment and Connor watches the realization sink in on Murphy's face, looking on when his breath comes back with a rush and a stutter, understanding how Connor isn't talking about his cock any longer - because seriously, he's done his fair share of looking at _that_ and so far, it didn't help.

Out of nowhere, Murphy laughs. It's giddy and sputtering and completely unfitting. Or completely fitting - isn't one supposed to have fun in bed? Connor doesn't remember, but he feels his face heat while his heartbeat hammers loudly in his ears. It's too weird, all of it.

Murphy locks eyes with him and nods.

Connor coughs. He sits back and grips Murphy's knees tighter, parting them. Out of his peripheral view, he sees Murphy's hand creeping down to his cock again and then Connor lets the peripheral view be peripheral, steels his nerves, and looks down.

Murphy flexes visibly and Connor blinks and keeps on looking, face throbbing with heat and embarrassment and it's working, judging from the cut off moans coming from above and still— He shouldn't see Murphy like this, he shouldn't, this is inappropriate beyond anything or is it _appropriate_ beyond anything because it's the only thing getting Murphy going?

It's so stressful there's sweat on his own back by now and one of his hands keeps slipping when Murphy tries to close his legs, the smell of lube and Murphy's cock and sweat all around them and still _it doesn't happen_.

Connor lets go and scoots closer, spreading his own knees and shoving them under Murphy's thighs, holding him open without needing to use his hands and then, finally, he takes his eyes off of Murphy's— middle, swallows, and reaches for the lube. “Come here,” he says and reaches for Murphy's hand. He slicks it up as generously as his own hand - which doesn't escape Murphy's notice.

“Connor,” Murphy says or asks, legs flexing, but Connor decides he's too busy, he will see this through now, no matter what it takes.

Setting the jar aside, he closes his hand around Murphy's and guides it back to where it should be. This way, he can control the pressure Murphy is using - which would tick off box three on the kink-sheet if it works. He feels mightily pleased with himself when he squeezes Murphy's hand, hard, and Murphy arches up from the mattress in the process. Being at someone's mercy it is, then.

Who knew.

Not Murphy, from the sound of it. He's moaning rather shamelessly, interrupted by high shocked noises, and several times, he tries to take back control and Connor will not tolerate it, not when he's so close, not when they're almost there. It needs to be like _this_ now, with Connor setting the pace, just shy of too slow and with a fiercer grip, and it's not going to be long, it's obvious, any second now-

Murphy groans, sounding frustrated, and then he wrenches his hand away, slipping it out from underneath Connor's and throwing his head back without any shame and his hips come off the mattress and—

“Jesus,” Connor says and shakes his head and keeps stroking. Under his palm, Murphy is incredibly hot, slick with lube and his own- and impossibly hard, it's a miracle he managed to hold out this long. Connor imitates the movement he tried to teach Murphy, the thick twat, and it takes exactly two strokes, then Murphy is coming all over his hand. And his own shirt. And everywhere, really.

Connor withdraws his hand and frowns down while Murphy comes, feeling pity because Murphy doesn't even take himself in hand and this is the _best_ part, why wouldn't he? Especially when he sounds so stressed - while having an orgasm - why would he do that to himself, and with the way he can relief himself so rarely, too- it doesn't make sense. He opens his mouth to ask, but by then Murphy is already finished and there's nothing to be done about it any longer.

“Yer weird,” Connor says anyhow. It just needs to be said. He takes in the state of his hand and glowers at Murphy - panting and staring at him with an open mouth - and wipes it off on Murphy's shirt. “Needs to be washed anyway,” Connor says smugly and then he climbs off the bed and goes to wash his hands, deliberately turning is back to Murphy to give him some time to put himself back in order.

When he turns back around, Murphy hasn't moved a muscle. Except for his head, which is turned in his direction, eyebrows practically raised up to his hairline and thighs still splayed, boneless and sated and whatnot. It's rather indecent, Connor thinks. He lights a smoke and plants his arse on the couch, turning on the TV and deciding to ignore Murphy being weird. Each to their own.

*

Murphy keeps shooting him glances. Nothing excessive, to be sure, but not something that can be ignored either, in the obvious way he does it. They don't even look friendly, these glances; more often than not, they're accompanied by a frown or a downturn of his mouth or a shake of his head.

It's certainly not the reaction Connor hoped for when he tried to take Murphy's mind off of things. To help him out. This is his reward now, Murphy's perpetual stink eye fixed at the back of his head.

Not that he would go and _ask_ Murphy about it, of course, that would be too much. The entire topic isn't something to talk about, it's just something that needs to be done, every once in a while. He simply hopes that either, Murphy will be able to find his own way from now on, internalizing the clues Connor gave him and put them to use with the next willing girl he encounters or that he, at least, stops trying to be coy about it and simply asks for it. That, for sure, would make both of their lives easier.

*

A few weeks later, almost a month, it gets blatantly clear Murphy won't, in fact, ask for it. His stink eye lessened somewhat over time, but the little glances he sends Connor's way do not. They're friendlier now, almost curious, as if he's trying to figure something out.

On most of these occasions, Connor barely manages to bite his tongue on starting a debate about how Murphy should be focusing on his own _not so little_ problems instead of conjuring up problems he thinks Connor might have. Ultimately - mostly out of fear that Murphy would want an actual conversation about it - Connor keeps his mouth shut. At least until he's tripping over an empty beer bottle and sees, out of the corner of his eyes, how Murphy doesn't flinch. He keeps on showering with his side turned towards the room instead of his back like he usually does.

Which means several things: firstly, Murphy isn't mindlessly showering like he appears to be, secondly, he's very obviously tracking Connor's movements and thirdly, intentional or not, he's about to have an erection.

Connor sighs, long and weary. “Murphy,” he says and it comes out gravelly, so he clears his throat. “Why didn't ye say anything? It's been a while, there's nothing to be ashamed about.” He tries for a smile and feels his lips turn downwards instead.

The shower shuts off immediately and Murphy wraps a towel around his hips. He wanders away, doing who knows what.

“Murphy.” Connor stalks closer, just a bit. “I told ye I don't mind. What I mind is ye being— in that kind of state and not being able to do anything about it. I don't want ye to be uncomfortable and I'm sure it's got to be unhealthy, at some point.”

“I can't believe ye.”

Connor huffs. “Well, ye better. Now-” He cranes his neck to get a look at Murphy's face, turned away from him like he is. “Is it time?” he asks, going for gentle instead of bullying Murphy into getting off. Which would be weird. Or, _weirder_.

When Murphy turns around, his hands loosen the towel despite the strangeness of it all. “It is,” he says, smiling, and maybe it looks a bit wary, but he points his chin at his bed nonetheless, raising his eyebrows in question.

Connor nods, walking over to the table to stub out his smoke and when he turns around, Murphy is already lying down. He strolls closer, eyes flitting between Murphy's face and where he's cradling himself, looking heavy. “Looks like a change for the better if ye can use yer hands again,” Connor says, curious, and sits down next to him.

“I've sorted that part out by now,” Murphy says roughly. He still only cups himself and doesn't reach for the lube or starts stroking at all.

Connor takes a closer look at his face, at the way Murphy stares up at him, waiting, teeth digging into his bottom lip. It takes a few moments for Connor to catch on and when he does, heat rises in his cheeks like it does so often nowadays. “Want me to look again?”

Murphy nods, not looking away from his face. Something is off, Connor thinks when he rounds the bed, frowning at Murphy's motionless legs, not raised and bent and ready to— Well, he'll have to do it himself, then. Maybe Murphy likes it better this way.

He climbs up on the bed, hands flat on Murphy's legs, parting them to make room for himself and finally, Murphy helps a bit by bending his knees and they take in the same position as the last time. Except Murphy being naked all the way and not in the throes of passion yet. Somehow, he simply lies and waits even though Connor can see him ready to go by now— and there's something else. Between his legs.

It's round and flat and blue. Connor blinks at it, and Murphy clenches around it.

The moment stretches on for a while.

“What,” Connor says eventually. He clears his throat and asks again, hoping the word will come out as an actual word this time, not only as a grunt. It's futile anyhow, Murphy doesn't answer. He tugs at himself, once, and flexes a few times more, _around_ \- but he doesn't say a word.

Connor looks up and he finds he can't snap his eyes up at Murphy's face any longer, they catch on all the naked skin instead, simply because there's so _much_ of it. He is, plain and simple, kneeling between Murphy's naked thighs. His unclothed brother is lying in front of him, on display, with _something_ stuck up his arse, and this is a situation that isn't too weird for them. Connor clears his throat and asks, “Plug?”

“Aye.” They stare at each other. “Didn't help much. Ye can take it out.”

His brain is empty. “Didn't help much? What does that- when did ye even put it in there-” He stares down at Murphy, face on fire. “When I was _grocery shopping_?”

Murphy squirms a little, nudging his thighs up against Connor's hands. Which are, somehow, still splayed on Murphy's skin.

Connor bears down on them and then he immediately changes his mind and bends them up instead, further up than before, and takes another look. “Is it safe to simply pull?” he asks, swallowing.

“Should be,” Murphy says. At least his hand is working now.

Something in Connor's mind grinds to a halt. “Ye did— Did ye try putting it in so ye could come while I was out and it didn't work? Or did it work and ye took a shower, after?”

Spreading his legs a bit more, Murphy lowers his eyebrows at him. It's an interesting combination, if one was in the mood to appreciate such things. Connor isn't. He's about fed up with not getting any answers and additionally fed up with wanting answers in the first place, because didn't Murphy clearly say it 'didn't help much'? There's no need for more questions. Murphy shoved a plug up his arse while he was out buying fucking food and then Murphy obviously didn't come, plug or not, and took a shower instead and then he came home and—

“Why did ye leave it in when it didn't help?” Connor asks, suspicious.

“How can ye be this thick?” Murphy shakes his head, naked as he is, hand slowly stroking his cock. “Take it out now, will ye.”

He does. Bracing one hand on Murphy's knee, Connor grips the base and pulls and when that doesn't do anything, he pulls a bit more. And a bit more when Murphy follows the plug down, groaning like the kinky person he is, and then he's letting out a high-pitched noise and fists tightly around his cock and the plug is out. Connor lets it drop to the floor and spares a single glance at how Murphy clenches a-fucking-gain, this time around nothing at all, looking stretched— Connor feels like he's losing his grip on something he wasn't aware of holding on to.

“It's not working,” Murphy says, staring up at him with a weird expression. “Any more practical tips?”

Connor shrugs and stares at the mattress. “Not at the moment. Dunno what ye like, Murph. I'm a bit lost.”

“Connor,” Murphy says and strangely enough, his voice sounds gentle. “How about ye show me instead? If ye can't think of anything else, just show me how ye do it. I'll take my cues then.”

He looks up, uncomprehending before he follows Murphy's gaze down to his own groin. To the impressive tent he's sporting. He stares at it for a while, still uncomprehending. “This isn't,” he says because nothing else comes to his mind. This isn't, indeed. Where did it come from and what does it want, even. It's entirely ridiculous, he never thought about stuff like butt plugs before. He is not the kind of person for anything anal, for sure. Why does his cock pretend in being interested in it _now_ of all times?

There's a small sigh and then Murphy says quietly, “Just show me.”

They switch places.

Connor works his jeans open and pulls them down enough so he could get a hand around himself and Murphy kneels to the side, blinking at him, looking like he's catching up on the craziness of the situation, with both of them on one fucking bed, cocks out and straining, and for what? For what.

Twisting around, Murphy takes the jar and coats his hand, and then he reaches for Connor and closes his fist around his cock at once, slicking him up.

It's like a kick to the stomach, so fucking sudden and unexpected. Connor shoots up from the mattress, frantically swatting at Murphy's hand. “I can do it,” he stresses highly and he has to consciously remind himself to let go of Murphy's hand in order to _get_ his hand off his cock.

His brain is fried, for sure.

He lies back again, jittery, and blinks at the ceiling. The air is cold against his cock, with the rest of him covered in clothes and sweat. It's a stark contrast and maybe, possibly, he should get started now. Get it over with. Murphy is probably staring, waiting for him to put his hand on himself to show him how it's done. Show the tricks up his sleeves and all of that shite.

Murphy sort of whines.

When Connor looks up, he sees how Murphy isn't staring at him at all; he's focused on something else, looking rather busy until Connor blinks out of his spell, dazed, and makes a small sound. Murphy stops dead.

“What,” Connor says weakly, watching on how Murphy scrambles, coming closer. He has half a mind to get started now, but Murphy is practically above him already, with his thighs bracketing Connor's hips and then Murphy's fucking _hand_ is on his cock again and this is just too indecent.

Connor sits up in a jerky movement. Murphy grips his shoulder with his free hand, not letting go of his cock like he wants to hold him in place— “What- Murphy, _fuck-_ ” Connor cries, and Murphy sits down, hissing like he's hurt. Connor can't move, he can't move at all, not when Murphy clenches around him so tightly. “Fuck,” he breathes, and then Murphy shoves at him, leaning in with all of his weight until Connor flops back on the bed.

Murphy heaves himself up, only a bit, really, and sits back down.

Connor moans helplessly and grips Murphy's hips, shoving him off and pressing him down at the same time. Murphy shoves back, pushing his hands against Connor's chest with bruising strength, bearing down again and again, looking flushed and angry and his cock hasn't lost _any_ of its hardness-

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Connor says, sobs, snapping his hips up, but only once. Only this one time. “Did ye hold off all this fucking time to _not_ come? Is that it, Murphy? Was there ever any problem at all?”

Murphy presses him against the mattress, fucking himself for real. “ _No_ , there was a problem. Yer so fucking stupid,” he says and his voice almost breaks, and then he sort of shudders and moans and hisses at the same time and Connor loses his mind.

“That's what ye want, aye? Ye need someone to fuck ye?” His face is on fire anyhow, doesn't matter how crude he is. He grips Murphy's hips, holding him in place and snapping his hips up with force. “Could've spared us a lot of awkward situations if ye had said so in the first place.”

Murphy swats at him and takes control again, face pinched and almost sad, what the fuck- “I don't know how to make ye _see_ \- please stop talking.”

Something is weird - or weirder than it was. Weirder than everything they've done so far, the impressive progression towards - whatever it is that's happening now. Connor swallows, floored for reasons he doesn't understand, and drops his hands, letting Murphy do the work. Letting him do how he pleases. Connor lies back, holding on by fisting his hands in the sheets, focusing on the sounds of Murphy working above him, on the feeling of Murphy's hands pressed against his chest - and then only one, when Murphy takes himself in hand again. After, there's not much coordination left, and Connor breathes deeply, torn between melting into the mattress and clawing out of his skin with the stress of holding back.

It's a lot, he thinks. It's a lot to process.

He closes his eyes and lets his hands slide back to Murphy's hips, holding on and turning off his thoughts. It doesn't take long. Murphy's movements stutter and his breath stutters and for a moment, he clenches even tighter, raising a sudden panic in Connor of coming before this is done- but then Murphy finishes with a broken sound, swaying on top of him in an uncoordinated circle.

Connor lets go and follows, gently holding him in place when he rolls up a few times. It's over and Connor lies boneless again, and after a few seconds of staring, Murphy climbs off and takes another shower.

Connor changes out of his sullied clothes, and in the evening, they order pizza. He finds he doesn't want to talk about it.

Thankfully, Murphy seems to agree.

*

Connor tries not to think about it too much; 'it' being the deed and the entire prelude that came before, and he tries to avoid Murphy's gaze in those moments when he feels the atmosphere shift towards something he doesn't understand, but it's futile - Murphy, while not openly saying anything about it, clearly busies himself with nothing _but_ thinking about it.

After a few weeks of cut-off conversations, awkward silences and too long glances, Connor picks up the phone and tells Rocco, “Ye shouldn't have said anything.” Then he hangs up, partly because he feels stupid as fuck and in no mood to explain any of what's happened to Rocco, of fucking course, but also because he feels guilty - if Rocco indeed hadn't said a word, he wouldn't have found out about Murphy's problem either, and that's something worthy of attention. Something worth getting rid of. It's of importance. Even if Connor, maybe, has to admit going a bit overboard with his solutions.

Best not to dwell on it, now that Murphy seems— cured, for the lack of a better word. It's been weeks and it's been a month and then it's been several months and nothing comes forth and he doesn't find Murphy in bathroom stalls again and he doesn't see that particular look on Murphy again, either - he averts his eyes, sneakily - but the problem has obviously resolved itself.

There's no reason he should keep thinking about it.

There's no reason at all.

He can't stop, and he knows Murphy notices and that Murphy knows why and that Murphy won't tell him.

*

The lights are turned off and he's barely able to see the hand in front of his eyes, yet Murphy still rummages around somewhere, or bumps around, to be more precise, doing who knows what at this unholy hour and Connor wants to blame Murphy for not being able to sleep, but that would be a lie now, wouldn't it, because when was the last time he slept through anyway, it's been long, too long, yet blaming Murph always works best to cheer him up, so he lifts his face from where it's pressed against the pillow and moves his arm to heave himself up, but then Murphy is already right there, next to his bed.

Somehow, it escaped his notice.

Murphy's hand settles on his back, dry and warm and a bit rough, and he pushes with hardly any pressure, coaxing him to lie back down. Connor does, with a sigh, and the hand stays on his back when the mattress dips and the smell of Murphy hits his nose; first the questionable soap they bought a while ago and the perpetual smoke all around him, and then his skin, somehow, like Connor knows exactly how it isn't Murphy's hair or his clothes or anything else that smells this way. It's Murphy's skin, also dry and warm and rough, and he hasn't been this near in a while, Connor finds himself inhaling deeply.

Settling somewhere next to him or over him - Connor isn't sure, in the darkness - Murphy spreads out his fingers, sliding them up to Connor's shoulder and from there on it's like he set something in motion. He doesn't stop, his hand doesn't let up, he strokes him, almost caressing, slow and gentle like nothing he's ever done before, in all their lives, and even though he stays silent, every once in a while his touch feels like a question.

Connor doesn't have an answer, he doesn't understand the question.

He stays quiet, savoring the feeling without having to admit it and eventually, he closes his eyes and refrains from opening them even when Murphy's hand reaches his lower back and doesn't come to a stop either, hooking under the fabric of his boxers. Connor lifts his hips in silence, waiting for something to hit him; shame or dread or fear or— but nothing comes forth besides a strong sense of understanding how it's time again, how Murphy needs this, now. Murphy needs and he can give.

The hand on his butt slides as gentle as it did on his back, if not more. It's entirely unexpected and Connor's breath stutters with it, unsure suddenly, the need to get the situation to move forward rising in him and just when he's about to bend his leg to give Murphy the access he needs, the mattress dips again and something else touches his skin.

It's even more unexpected and it takes Connor more than a few moments to recognize it for what it is - Murphy's lips on his skin. On his lower back, on his side, breath tickling against him and hand unmoving, thumb resting just underneath his tail bone. Connor doesn't know what to do any longer.

Turns out, it's not important. Murphy knows what to do, what he wants to do. His mouth wanders over Connor's side, down in the direction of the mattress and his other hand comes up, digging into Connor's skin, curling around his side. Coaxing Connor to turn around.

His breath stutters again because once he does— once he does, there's no going back. He can't pretend any longer, and is this really what he should do, should he show how affected he is by Murphy's touch- if he can't pretend any longer, must he think about consequences then-

Murphy's hand withdraws, but his mouth stays pressed against Connor's side, resting, breath wet against Connor's skin.

This time, his heart stutters. He turns around.

Murphy stays above him, not moving away but leaning closer to mouth at him again, at his belly, at his lower belly, towards his middle. It's not as sexual as he thought it would be, Connor thinks for a fleeting second. This is nothing like the desperation overcoming Murphy like the last times. Nothing like it at all, it's more like- and that's just-

The darkness adds to the intimacy, he's barely able to make out Murphy's movements, only by touch, and when Murphy makes a quiet sound and bumps against where Connor is hard and waiting, Murphy kisses him there as well, just like that, and then he lets himself fall down beside him, hand firm around Connor's hip and turning him with him.

With both of them on their sides, he feels Murphy breathe against intimately and it's too intense for a moment, right until Murphy moves, lips fumbling in the dark until they find him, fitting them over his cock, daring to lick—

“Murphy,” Connor whispers urgently, and then again, “Murphy.” Illicit arousal shoots through him, alarming and thrilling and breathtaking, and _this is not_ how- this isn't how it's supposed to be. He should be helping, he should- and instead, this-

Murphy makes a quiet sound and flutters his tongue, lapping at the build-up the shot of arousal produced and immediately after, Connor feels it happening again, and Murphy licks it up before he draws off with one last brush of his tongue. The heel of his palm drags over Connor's thigh when he winds his hand around it, pulling until it rests against his side, on top of him, and Murphy slips his hand through the gap between Connor's thighs, arm brushing intimately against him. He settles his hand on Connor's butt, spreading his fingers.

Connor starts shaking and it doesn't stop when Murphy takes him in his mouth again. It feels like Murphy holds him in place with his hand and mouth while he's pinned down under Connor's own thigh - he's the one keeping Murphy in place, isn't he, isn't that what Murphy wants, is it, maybe? But then Murphy opens his mouth wider, apparently done with tasting, and applies gentle pressure against Connor's butt and when Connor lets his hips go with the movement, he's essentially fucking Murphy's mouth.

Curling down with the force of arousal and helplessness shooting through him, Connor tries to stare through the darkness, trying to _see_ , but he can't, he can only lay his hand on the side of Murphy's face, softly, and roll his hips whenever Murphy urges him on.

It's too intimate.

Connor whispers his name and then again when Murphy stops pushing, expecting him to- _insisting_ he should move on his own, to thrust into his mouth, and Connor shivers, not in control anymore, stroking Murphy's face, whispering again, “Oh, Murphy.”

It lasts only a short while and he taps against Murphy's jaw in warning, receiving a flutter of Murphy's tongue in answer, and then he curls into himself and comes without breathing, choking on a sound when Murphy swallows around him, not drawing off until he's spent and the second he lets go of him, Connor grips Murphy by the neck and drags him up.

He has his tongue in Murphy's mouth before they can sort their limbs.

A bitter taste explodes in his mouth, he tastes himself, he tastes Murphy underneath; Murphy who took it all, who did this for him— who isn't even naked yet. Connor lets go for long enough to snap at the elastic of Murphy's briefs, trying to get the point across and pulling back his leg, waiting impatiently until Murphy is bare as well. “Murphy,” he rasps without conscious thought. He hikes Murphy's thigh over his hip, shoving his leg between Murphy's and pressing up, brushing against him where he— that one time. Where he was with his eyes and his cock, later.

There isn't enough leverage for Murphy to thrust, he only manages to brush against Connor's abdomen and starts shaking when Connor puts his mouth back on him, chasing his own taste, chasing what's underneath, and when he can't breathe any longer, Murphy follows him, pushing back with his own tongue and jerking his hips, rubbing against his belly.

It's enough.

Wetness spreads between them, hot and somehow significant, and it takes too much effort for Connor to let go of Murphy's neck, to stop holding him in place and when he finally does let go, he doesn't know what to do next. “Wish I would've known that's what ye wanted all this time,” he says quietly, just to break the awkwardness he can feel building between them. Or maybe it's just him. Maybe it's always just him, because Murphy doesn't let go of him, he stays where he is and he doesn't flinch or huff. He's steadfast like that. For once, Murphy is the one with the plan.

“I didn't want it all this time,” Murphy says, completely out of the blue. “I knew _ye_ wanted-”

Connor rears back, at least a few inches. “I didn't.”

Murphy scoots after him, close enough to brush his lips against Connor's, almost sweet. “I knew ye wanted this and that ye didn't know,” he says, softening to a whisper, “Right from the start, Con, and then I knew my problem was only a problem when ye weren't around, in my mind or otherwise.”

Blinking in the darkness, Connor tries to make sense of it. He fails. “But I didn't-” he says again, because he _didn't._ Did he? And also— “That what this is about?” he asks quietly, unsure and suddenly ashamed of it. It's not something he should be asking, whether this is about sex. What else is it supposed to be about, what kind of question is that even.

“Nah, it isn't,” Murphy says, hushed, “Remember that first time? Ye rubbed yer thumb over me and ye put it in yer mouth, after, and ye didn't even notice. And in the car, ye didn't pull at my shirt, ye touched me instead.”

The shaking starts up somewhere on his neck and spreads out quickly, a prickling shower of too hot and too exposed.

Murphy hooks his thigh more firmly around his hip, holding on tight. “Ye were hard every time and ye didn't notice, not even when ye asked me whether ye should _look_ at me, Con.” He's still whispering, gentle and almost soothing, and it's the only thing holding Connor together.

“Sounds like I'm pretty fucking stupid,” he says hoarsely.

This time, Murphy actually laughs, a quiet little sound that puffs against Connor's mouth, doing nothing to stop the shaking. “It took me until my cock was down someone else's throat to realize I thought of ye in the next room to even—” Murphy grins against his lips. “Ye took me home and made me come and ye didn't _know_. Ye didn't know about any of it. How I understood I didn't want anyone else touching me anymore, how angry ye were after ye found me. How I almost took yer hand on the way home.”

Something flares up inside of him, due to both Murphy's rough voice and his words. “Murph, what is this about,” he says again, whispering so quietly he hopes, maybe, Murphy won't hear him.

He does, of course. Still, there's no huff or impatient noise or any other reaction than Murphy scooting yet a bit closer. “Thought I showed ye,” he rumbles and all of a sudden, Connor's heart is on fire.

“Maybe 'm misunderstanding,” he says, face hot in the darkness and no one there to see it.

Murphy shoves at him, pressing with the length of his body until Connor rolls onto his back. “I can show ye again. I'll show ye ever day if ye want me to.” He shifts closer, draping himself over Connor, hair catching and drying come catching and their smell everywhere and Connor thinks he understands, now.

“No one else?”

“What for? Won't ever love anyone as I love ye anyway.”

He's on fire, everywhere. Connor crowds closer. “Tell me again.”

“That I love ye?” Murphy lowers himself, pressing the air out of him. He kisses him again. He waits. He _knows_. “Or how ye love me?”

Connor shakes. “ _Both_.” He breathes, staring up into the darkness, searching for Murphy's eyes. “Tell me again.”

 


End file.
